I glance back at my phone.One more message, unsent.
Me "See you in Crans.I'll ski like you're watching me."
I hit send.
No reply.
But I can imagine her half-smile as she reads it.
And that's enough.For now.
***
Crans-Montana, Switzerland, December 18
Katharina
Crans-Montana is one of those venues that's beautiful in theory — when the sun is out, when the mountains are sharp-edged and glorious.The downhill course here is easy for the men's competition.Actually, it's so easy that they tend to complain.
But not today.Today, everything is white and wrong.
Fog swallows the slope like a curtain refusing to rise.I can't see anything beyond the first gate from the press area near the finish line.Just ghost poles and vague outlines.Even the coaches on the hill are radioing in with that strained voice people use when they're trying not to admit how bad it is.
We've been in "delay" status for over an hour.
I sip my third coffee.The cup is trembling a little in my hand, and I pretend it's because of the cold.Not the nerves.Not the knowing.
I glance up toward the start.I can't see it, but I can feel it.Every racer up there is trying to pretend they're not thinking about visibility, compression zones, how ice behaves when it's humid.But I know Thomas.I know he's not just pretending.He'll race this slope like he can see everything — like fog is just air.
And that scares me more than anything.
My phone buzzes.
Tom: "Still nothing?"
I type quickly.
Me: "Visibility is crap.Jury's talking again."
Tom: "Start ref says we're on hold.No one's even booted up yet."
I exhale.He sounds calm.Probably is calm.Probably has his boots off, sipping something warm, teasing Niko about last night's bad Tinder luck.
And here I am, worrying like a wife and acting like a ghost.
I type:
Me: "Don't ski it if it looks bad."
Then I delete it.
I try again.
Me: "How's the mood up there?"
A beat.
Tom: "Bored.Hungry.Martin offered me a protein bar in exchange for my spot on the start list."
